


Of Recreation and Redemption

by bagelgladiator



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Canon Era, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-18
Updated: 2018-11-18
Packaged: 2019-08-25 05:26:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,614
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16655050
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bagelgladiator/pseuds/bagelgladiator
Summary: After Enjolras finds Grantaire playing dominoes at Richefeu's, Grantaire tries to amend the accident by inviting Enjolras back to his apartment. Things don't go exactly as planned.





	Of Recreation and Redemption

**Author's Note:**

> This takes place after the events at Richefeu's in the book, but you don't have to have read the book to read this fic. I did my best to continue the storyline in Victor Hugo's narration style. Hope you enjoy!

Enjolras stepped inside the smoking-room, squinting as an attempt to shield his eyes from the thick smog. He observed the room, looking for someone in particular.

Packed together tightly, numerous young men filled the air with sounds of gossip and clacking dominos. Nearly every table in the room was full of patrons. A server carrying a tray of glasses swept past, and Enjolras was forced to step backward, his shoulder hitting the door. He crossed his arms and furrowed his brow, wishing that these men—who once allowed the flame of insurgency to blaze in their bellies, but who now only used Paris’ wine stores to light a different kind of flame, one of boisterous indifference—would leave this dark smoking-room. It was one o’clock in the afternoon; the sun was high in the sky. Rays of belief, he hoped, could shine down on them once more.

Suddenly, a familiar voice broke its way through the din.

“Double-six!” it shouted.

Enjolras’ head snapped towards the sound, and he was greeted with the sight of Grantaire. The man was seated across from a bearded fellow, an artist type, and was lying dominos across a table’s surface.

“Fours,” said the partner.

“The pig!” Grantaire grumbled. “I have no more.”

Enjolras watched as Grantaire plucked another domino up from the pile, and irritation began to bubble in Enjolras’ chest. He had sent Grantaire here to recruit this family of virtuosos, not to play them. In fact, Enjolras had even hoped that by providing Grantaire an opportunity of redemption, the drunkard would be inspired himself. How wrong he had been. To say nothing of Enjolras’ disappointment, he was filled with frustration.

As the two men continued to game, Enjolras made his way through the labyrinth of tables. A few guests shouted friendly questions of participation at him, but he declined with a polite shake of the head. To participate in these games would be a waste of time and spirit, and he was already running behind on his errand to visit the Cougourde d’Aix. He had one objective: to tackle Grantaire’s apathy. Gamblers weren’t going to get in the way of that.

By the time Enjolras made it to the back of the room, Grantaire was taking yet another domino from the pile. “Damn it,” he grumbled.

Enjolras planted himself in front of their table. “I do hope your game is going well?”

Grantaire froze and looked up at Enjolras. For the briefest second his face showed guilt, but his expression quickly retreated back to its usual casualness.

“I’m afraid I’m losing poorly.” Grantaire shrugged.

“Perhaps I could speak with you a moment,” Enjolras suggested. “Your gambling partner would have to wait.”

The other man did not look pleased with this idea and seemed about to protest when Grantaire cut him off. “I’d be happy to speak with you,” he said.

Enjolras nodded once and turned on his heel, striding back towards the door and exiting. He didn’t look to see if Grantaire was behind him; the older man always seemed to be somewhere in his vicinity, and Enjolras knew that he could at least rely on Grantaire to follow him.

When the dirty haze of Richefeu’s was left behind, Enjolras breathed in the afternoon air. The drafts that rolled through the city streets were not as fresh as in the winds of the open countryside, where Enjolras and his family used to vacation during the summer months, but anything beat the heavy atmosphere of that smoking-room.

As Enjolras had assumed, Grantaire came out the door a few seconds later. He was still wearing the red Robespierre waistcoat that he’d donned earlier. Here in the light, Enjolras couldn’t help but admire the faint paisley design on its fabric, and he guessed Grantaire must have paid a pretty penny for it. Considering Grantaire’s gambling habits and apparent losing streak, Enjolras wondered how he could have afforded such a prize. Perhaps one of his many women had sewed it for him. Grantaire was always mentioning his conquests, and it seemed unlikely that at least one of them couldn’t embroider.

“I was expecting you to be at the Cougourde d’Aix by now,” Grantaire said. “If I had known you would be attending me, Apollo, I would have saved you a seat, as a gentleman should.”

Grantaire was giving him an impish smile. Enjolras tried his best to ignore the dimples on either cheek, for to get distracted now would be foolish.

“Grantaire,” Enjolras began, “I sent you here because I believe that you have it inside of yourself to inspire the hearts of the people. Yet when I check in on your progress, I find you engaging with only one individual—in a game of dominos, of all things. I tolerate your harangues of disbelief during meetings. What I cannot tolerate, however, is your indifference directly affecting our campaign. Your presence here at Richefeu’s was supposed to be a vital part of the greater system, the greater skeleton, of the revolution. The body of a people cannot effectively fight with a missing hand. How can it hold a gun? These artists have the most skilled hands in Paris. Without their help, our fight might not be as successful.”

Grantaire leaned against the facade of the building and leveled Enjolras’ gaze. “I have been here for the past hour. Did it not occur to you that I might have already spoken to them? I might have guessed as much, that you would doubt my abilities. What a strange concept that is! You, our fearless leader, doubting something. I am usually cast in the role of the disbeliever, but you seem to have stolen that part from my grasp today.”

Enjolras sighed at Grantaire’s attempt to hassle him, but the light trill in his voice told Enjolras he was only teasing.

Grantaire continued.

“As it is, I have spoken with them. I can tell you that they have no interest in your revolution, or your principles, or your committee of public liberation. They are artists, first and foremost. Artists are privileged with the gift of understanding the universe. They are the Copernicuses of the modern era. They collect data from the way the leaves fall onto the ground, the way a lady’s skirt brushes over cobblestones, and the way sunlight glints across glossy hair. This data represents the human spirit. But I must say, the results do not look good for you. It has become prevalent over the past few years that the leaves clog the gutters, those skirts are ruined with filth, and beautiful tresses remain shrouded in darkness. The artist sees this, and the artist flourishes; this phenomenon is the result of unleashing the concept of human despair onto canvas. But with an artist’s success comes the realization that the world is hopeless. Enjolras, you will find no army in Richefeu’s.”

Enjolras crossed his arms over his breast and raised his chin. “I can hardly believe that not a single person in that room takes society's woes to heart.”

“Oh, but they do. Society’s woes give them bread.”

“A new, liberated France will give them bread.”

“While they wish for freedom, their version of freedom is to play dominoes during their lunch hour. This, they already have.”

Enjolras pressed his thumb and index finger against the bridge of his nose. He was silent for a long while, and when he looked back up, Grantaire was regarding him intently.

“I apologize if this blunt truth has ruined your persistent optimism,” Grantaire said. There was a touch of sincerity in his voice. “You know, I can hardly stand seeing you with those pouting lips. Go to the Cougourde d’Aix and inspire the people there. May your optimism return to you in full.”

Enjolras was not aware that he was pouting, or that he was even capable of doing so. He pressed his lips into a firm line. “And what will you do, Grantaire?”

Grantaire pushed himself off the wall and threw a hand towards the door. “Finish my game. Richefeu’s patrons may be an uninspired bunch, but they certainly know how to hold their own in a game of dominoes. I consider myself a master of the game, but I have been proved wrong, at least this once. Perhaps you would be an equal challenge for me.”

“I don’t play,” stated Enjolras.

He was about to reach into his jacket to check his pocket watch, but the quarter bell rang out from the Vaugirard steeple indicating it to be fifteen minutes past one.

“I must be heading to the Cougourde now. Goodbye, Grantaire.”

Already turning his body to start the trek towards Issy, Enjolras was caught by the arm. Not a harsh grab, but a well-grounded one. Enjolras looked to see Grantaire’s large hand pressed against his coat sleeve.

“You don’t, or you can’t?”

Enjolras furrowed his brow. “Pardon?”

“Do you choose not to play dominoes, or are you not able to?”

Enjolras thought this was a strange clarification to make. “I’m not educated in the logistics of the game. My youth was filled with other recreations, and as I have grown older, I haven’t seen the need to learn. I am much too busy to spend my time in a crowded room just to click ivory pieces together.”

At this, Grantaire let go of Enjolras’ arm with a cordial squeeze. “Then perhaps I could teach you. There are no rules against playing the game in an unpopulated setting, if it’s the crowd that bothers you.”

“I’m not bothered by crowds.”

Grantaire smiled, and twin dimples dotted his stubble cheeks. “Wonderful,” he said. “After you are finished at the Cougourde, meet me on the corner outside the Musain. Dominoes is a game of strategy. Your learning will not go to waste.”

Enjolras was unsure. He had never spent time alone with Grantaire, let alone schedule time alone with him. But this might be an opportunity to get to know the man better. Without being in the presence of a group, Grantaire might allow himself to act more genuinely. Enjolras had always suspected that the man only acted the way he did to impress others.

“I agree to meet you there, but it won’t be until much later in the evening. The Cougourde is a rowdy family of idealists, and I hope to coordinate plans with them.”

Grantaire gave him another smile, touched his arm again, and swept back into Richefeu’s. “See you there,” he called over his shoulder like it was just another one of his social engagements.

Enjolras watched as the door shut. He took a deep sigh, then turned on his heel to continue his journey to the Cougourde.

 

x

 

By the time the meeting was finished, the stars had appeared in the sky. Enjolras had become quick acquaintances with the comrades of the Cougourde and was now leaving their headquarters, where he had participated in discussions and gained their trust. The Cougourde was pleased to offer its services to the ABC, and vice versa. Already, Enjolras could feel in his chest a light fluttering. It was one of anticipation for events to come. With the people of France banned together against the King, social liberation would surely follow.

Being busy with negotiations, Enjolras had forgotten his conversation with Grantaire. But when he stepped out into the cool Parisian night, his stomach gnawing, his fingers smudged with ink, his eyes weary from reading, he was reminded of his friend’s teaching proposal. Enjolras was never one to miss a rendezvous if he had already agreed to attend it, so sticking to his moral convictions, he set off.

As he wound his way through the narrow streets, he soon came upon the Cafe Musain. Candles and lanterns burned in the windows. Patrons eating suppers of bread and fish could be seen through the reamy glass, and Enjolras glanced briefly through a window to see if any of his other friends were there. They weren’t in the main room, and it seemed unlikely they would be in the back room since there was no scheduled meeting tonight. The members of the ABC must have been preoccupied with preparing their own suppers at home or perhaps dining at some other establishment around the city.

Suddenly, a familiar voice came from down the road.

“Good evening,” called Grantaire.

He was standing a good ways off underneath a gas lantern, and he gave Enjolras a jaunty salute. Enjolras made his way towards the other man.

“Good evening,” Enjolras replied, once they were standing close enough to have a conversation without the entire street hearing it. “I apologize for meeting you at such a late hour.”

Grantaire waved his hand as if swatting the idea of lateness away, and then he began to walk down the road away from the Musain. Enjolras trotted behind to catch up, and together they turned onto Rue Hyacinthe.

“I was lead to believe that we were to play each other at the Musain,” said Enjolras.

“Not at all,” replied Grantaire. “Bossuet, Joly, and I have been banned from laying a finger on a single domino in that place, after what happened last time. I do firmly believe that those servants are a loathsome bunch, but they keep their wine stores well stocked, so who am I to discredit them? Regardless, we are setting out towards my apartment, where we are allowed to play as many games as we wish. My lodgings are well stocked and furnished; you could not go thirsty or hungry there even if it was your desire to do so.”

Although Enjolras had not heard “what happened last time”, he decided to disregard the comment. Bossuet, Joly, and Grantaire were all adults. If they acted raucously, they should be prepared for the repercussions.

And apparently, Grantaire was quite prepared. He must have owned a domino set of his own that he kept in his apartment, and given the man’s love for gambling, he probably possessed a variety of games. Chess, draughts, and backgammon came to Enjolras’ mind. And, of course, cards. Even Enjolras had a few sets of those.

Despite Grantaire’s preparation, Enjolras was apprehensive to visit the apartment. Enjolras knew it was quite close to the Musain, but he had never actually been inside it before. Grantaire was endowed with the upper hand tonight: it was his own invitation, his own quarters, and his own game. Enjolras was at his mercy. He only hoped that their usual quarreling would be kept to a minimum in order that the evening might pass at a more pleasant pace.

Only two minutes later, Grantaire stopped at a door, Number Six, and held it open for Enjolras. Enjolras gave him his thanks, and he entered, coming upon a narrow spiral staircase almost immediately.

“Sixth floor,” Grantaire told him.

Enjolras started ascending the stairs, Grantaire on his heel.

“A top floor apartment is a novelty,” Enjolras said. “How did you find it? Students often are unable to afford such fine quarters.”

“I would hardly call it a novelty, and when you see it, I doubt you will hold it to such prestige either. I did not obtain that apartment out of want, but of need. The lighting is better there. It allows me to select the most accurate colors for my paintings and to see the fines details on my canvases.”

“I have a hazy memory of you mentioning, once, that you had been trained in the arts.”

“Poorly trained. But I was not aware that you paid attention to my monologues at all. You embody the Greek spirit, Apollo, but you do not seem to be interested in Greece’s greatest gift: theater. A monologue should be something saved for the stage, or the heart, or a toast. You tend to use it only to fulfill political motives by giving speeches.”

“Is theater not always meant to comment on the affairs of society? You told me earlier today, ‘Artists are privileged with the gift of understanding the universe.’ Does this not also apply to society, and thus a political body? I believe it does. Besides, the revival of the classics brought with it the revival of rhetoric. Without rhetoric, a speech is nothing.”

Grantaire chuckled to himself. They stepped onto the sixth floor, and Grantaire withdrew his key. After coming to what must have been his apartment door, he stuck the key into the lock and twisted, allowing the door to swing open with a push.

“ _Voilà_ ,” Grantaire announced. With a sweeping arm and a low bow, he gestured for Enjolras to enter. “My humble lodgings.”

Enjolras raised an eyebrow but stepped inside anyway. “I would appreciate it if you would not treat me like royalty, Grantaire. I know you do it just to spite me.”

Grantaire laid the key on a half-moon table situated near the door. “I apologize. It was my intention to treat you like divinity. I will certainly try harder next time.”

Enjolras huffed and crossed his arms in response to that remark, but his attention was promptly drawn away from Grantaire’s goading to instead focus on the apartment before him. It was a quaint space, just two small rooms, but the far wall had a set of porte-fenêtres that led out onto a thin balcony, providing the illusion of a larger area. The doors were open, the heavy curtains pulled back.

Perhaps the floral scent of the nearby Jardin de Luxembourg was wafting in, but if it was, Enjolras couldn’t tell. Light paint fumes took hold of everything in the room. Multiple canvases were stacked against three of the four walls, and one, half-covered in pigment, lay perched on an easel in the corner. There were just as many empty wine bottles as paint jars littering the floor. Next to the easel was an oak bookshelf overflowing with novels. From Enjolras’ position just beyond the entrance door, he could see that the other room—so small, could it even be considered a room?—held a mattress and trunk.

When he looked back at Grantaire, Enjolras saw that the man was watching him.

“Have you eaten since lunch?” Grantaire asked.

“I didn’t have lunch,” Enjolras admitted. “I was focused on getting to the Cougourde.”

Grantaire eyes widened, and he rushed towards the bookshelf after pointing at a Saint-Anne table that was centered in front of the porte-fenêtres. “Make yourself comfortable as I prepare a meal. The domino case is already laying on the table. Be useful and dump the pieces out, won’t you?”

Enjolras protested. “You don’t have to prepare anything for me, Grantaire. I’ve already imposed on your home; I don’t need to be pilfering your food supplies, too.”

“Nonsense!” Grantaire cried. He _tsked_ three times and unwrapped a loaf of bread that had been placed on top of the short bookshelf. “My dear Enjolras, allow yourself to eat and be merry. No one under my roof—and I can assure you, we are quite literally under the roof, being on the sixth floor—will starve. I enjoy a life of Hedonism, and one might consider it a sin to have company not participate in such pleasures as well.”

Taking a moment to point at the angled ceiling where the roofline was, Grantaire began unwrapping a little wheel of hard cheese. Enjolras knew objecting further would get him nowhere, and so he resigned himself to be fed.

He walked across the room and settled himself down in one of the two chairs at the Saint-Anne table. Indeed, on its surface was a wooden box with a domino emblem burnt on its top. As Enjolras slid the cover off and scooped the dominoes out, Grantaire returned carrying a plate of bread and cheese.

“I appreciate you as a good host, but you truly don’t have to do this for me.”

Grantaire shook his head and placed the plate onto the table next to the pile of dominoes. “I told you already: I would do anything for you. I meant that statement in earnest.”

The older man’s eyes reflected sincerity, and Enjolras was reminded of pity. Grantaire, a person too incompetent to meet his own needs, would go through leaps and bounds to meet the needs of others. Liquid guilt churned in the pit of Enjolras’ stomach; the harsh words he had spewed at Grantaire earlier today, while seeming deserved at the time, were ill-judged.

“Thank you, Grantaire.”

Those honest, tender eyes persisted for only a few more moments before they were quickly buried. Grantaire gave Enjolras a crooked grin and started flipping the dominoes over so that the pips were facedown. Enjolras watched while taking a few bites of bread and cheese, both of which were fresh and newly purchased. Combeferre and Joly usually reminded Enjolras to eat, for he often was too caught up in work to remember. He had not seen Combeferre or Joly after they had left the cafe to complete their respective missions, and would not see them again until tomorrow evening when the next ABC meeting was agreed to take place. Enjolras reminded himself to pick up some bread of his own tomorrow morning.

When Grantaire was finished turning the dominoes over and shuffling them around, he spread his hands out on the table.

“This pile is called the boneyard. We’ll both pick a domino from here, and the person with the heaviest domino—the one with the most pips—goes first.”

Enjolras nodded and followed Grantaire’s instructions. They both turned a domino over.

Grantaire’s had three pips on one side and five pips on the other. Enjolras’ had two pips on both sides.

“ _Bon_. My domino is called a three-five, and yours is a double-two. Since mine has more pips, it is heaviest, so I go first. But before that happens, we each must draw seven dominoes from the boneyard. Stand your dominoes up and face them towards yourself, so that I am not able to see. I’ll do the same.”

Together, they each randomly chose seven dominoes and stood them up on their sides. Enjolras, trying to discern if he had drawn a good hand, stared intently at the ivory pieces. Before he could ask what to do next, Grantaire pushed the rest of the boneyard to the side of the table and then laid a three-four down.

“I have begun the game. Since I put a three-four down, you have to connect one of your dominoes to my own. The domino you choose must have one side with the same number of pips as my own.”

Enjolras knit his eyebrows. “So I am to draw a domino with either three or four pips on one of its sides?” Looking down at his seven dominoes, he saw that he had multiple three and four pipped choices. “But what if I don’t have any? What would I do then?”

“Then you would draw another domino from the boneyard, and keep drawing until you have a domino that works. The goal of the game is to get rid of all of your pieces, so ideally, you will not have to do this. I would also like to say, if someone lays down a double, you can place your domino in the center of the other domino. If someone lays down a blank, you can put down any domino you wish.”

Enjolras nodded, but he was still confused. Grantaire was the type who taught by doing, and Enjolras could tell that the man was not in his element when he tried to instruct Enjolras by word of mouth. Enjolras would simply have to continue on and hope for the best, in order that Grantaire could teach by example.

So, he laid a one-four down. He connected his four-pipped side to first domino’s four-pipped side like Enjolras had seen his friends do whenever they played dominoes before and after meetings.

Grantaire grinned and put a double-one down. In response, Enjolras placed a one-three in its center.

“Is that correct?” he asked.

“Yes. Once one understands the basic principles of the game, it becomes easier to make decisions for which domino to use.”

“I’m reassured that you conform to at least some principles.”

“I hope my gambling helps you sleep better at night, then.” Another crooked grin, and then he placed a zero-two down.

Enjolras slid a two-five across the table. “I have more pressing affairs to think about at night than your gambling habits.”

“What could possibly be more pressing than my own self?” Grantaire drew a domino. Five-six.

Enjolras drew as well. Double-six. “The fate of France.”

Grantaire burst into laughter. Enjolras frowned.

“What do you find to be so hilarious?”

“The fate of France?” Grantaire rested his elbow on the table, using his hand to keep his head aloft. He was laughing so hard tears dotted his eyes. “The concept of fate is nothing but the spun lies of desperate people on their knees, at their last straw, begging to make their troubles the fault of some higher power. Yet their troubles are all their own.” Grantaire righted himself and wiped the tears from his cheeks. “I admit that where and how you are born affects your life, but fate does not dictate the rest. These sad believers of fate look upon the world like how children look upon a puppet show: eyes wide, helpless, waiting. Fate, you say? Bullshit, I hear. Fate does not hold me down, nor you, nor this country.”

Enjolras was about to protest, but Grantaire quickly waved his hands in front of his face.

“I could easily, for example, draw a gun on a man and pull the trigger, and I would be sent off to prison and never heard from again.” Grantaire sighed and took a piece of cheese off the plate, plopping it in his mouth. “Is it my fate to do so? No. But, without difficulty, I could take Clotho by the throat and spin a thread myself. No one is fated to do anything. There is only choosing to do something, or choosing not to do something, or being acted upon, in which you choose to react. What shall France choose to do? I do not know. You do not know either. The faster you make this realization, the longer you shall live.”

Enjolras was silent for a moment, taking in Grantaire’s words. “Live?”

“You will martyr yourself, surely.”

“Are you suggesting I am _fated_ to do so?”

Grantaire was silent for a few moments as well, and a smile formed on his face, revealing those dimples again. “You,” he purred “are clever.”

“And you are lyrical.”

“In my monologues, which you despise so?”

“I do not despise them. I only wish that you would focus your skilled rhetorical power on something greater.”

“Such as?”

“The goals of the ABC.”

By this time, the game was long forgotten. Enjolras took a piece of cheese and bread as well, biting into the rich food and letting them sit on his tongue before chewing and swallowing.

“My dear Enjolras,” Grantaire began, “do I not attend every meeting?”

Enjolras thought back. “If I am correct, you have never missed a single one.”

It was true. Despite all the things Grantaire said about not believe in their work, he had never missed a single meeting. There was even that day, perhaps a year ago, when he had arrived at the Musain sick. Joly had nearly fainted when he heard Grantaire cough.

“Of course,” Grantaire said. “I am always there.”

Enjolras knew he was correct, but to let him win so easily wouldn’t be as much fun. Since the game of dominoes had been left behind, Enjolras might as well find another way to prove himself to Grantaire.

“Yet,” Enjolras began, “you put no effort into our meetings other than showing up. If anything, you disrupt our meetings with your incessant disbelief.”

Grantaire clicked his tongue and shook his head. “Were you not listening to me in the cafe earlier today? I did not lie. I speak my mind, an occurrence which you should know well. I may not believe in the cause, Enjolras, but I believe in you.”

Grantaire’s gazed across the table at Enjolras. Even in the dim light of the candles and of the city outside, Enjolras could make out a few dark speckles in Grantaire’s otherwise blue eyes. Enjolras had never been this close to Grantaire before, other than when they argued at the cafe. Sometimes they would start speaking to one another, the rest of the cafe melted away, and Enjolras would only notice that he had gotten off track until the two of them had gotten so close to one another that their chests nearly touched. Nearly. But Enjolras always caught himself before that happened. He would step away and start the meeting again, leaving Grantaire to his drink.

Now, Enjolras wasn’t focused on getting back to a meeting. In truth, he wasn’t even focused on getting back to the game. He hadn’t come here for the game; he’d come here to solve the enigma that was this man.

“Tell me about your books,” Enjolras finally said, redirecting the focus onto something else.

Grantaire’s eyes flicked over to the bookshelf, and some of the pressure in Enjolras’ chest resided. When Grantaire looked back and smiled, the tight feeling returned beneath his ribs, and with it, a trembling fear in the back of Enjolras’ mind.

“Ah, my books,” Grantaire said, as if he were oblivious to the skirmish happening in Enjolras’s chest.

Grantaire stood and made his way over to the shelf, scanning the rows for a moment before hooking his finger on a spine and removing it from the company of its brothers. The cloth binding was a deep red and covered in ornate golden flowers, and Grantaire gently flipped through the pages. The way he handled the book reminded Enjolras of the time he had watched Combeferre lift a spider off a windowsill to bring it outside and release it. Enjolras couldn’t help but smile. When Grantaire landed on the page he wanted, he looked at Enjolras briefly before reading off the page:

 

> _Some say an army of horsemen,_
> 
> _some of footsoldiers, some of ships,_
> 
> _is the fairest thing on the black earth,_
> 
> _but I say it is what one loves._

Enjolras nodded silently, contemplating. The rhythm sounded familiar, probably due to Jehan reading aloud this same poem before, but Enjolras couldn’t place the name of it in his mind. Grantaire continued reading, his deep voice drawing, his eyes wistful with every new stanza. He had always possessed an enthralling way of speaking. It had been part of the reason Enjolras had never asked him to quit talking during their meetings. The lilt of each syllable, as if spoken in perfect delicacy, settled deep in Enjolras’ chest and stirred something beneath his ribcage.

Grantaire finished the poem:

 

> _I would much prefer to see the lovely_
> 
> _way she walks and the radiant glance of her face_
> 
> _than the war-chariots of the Lydians or_
> 
> _their footsoldiers in arms._

The apartment was silent for a minute, and neither of them looked at or spoke to each other. Finally, Grantaire shut the book dutifully and leveled Enjolras’ gaze again.

“Thoughts, Enjolras?”

Enjolras crossed his legs and fiddled with a piece of bread in his hand. “I think the poem is lovely. However,” he hesitated, “I think the meaning is a bit lost on me.”

A sad but almost knowing look washed over Grantaire’s face. “I see. I guessed that it might.”

He went to put the book back, but Enjolras put up his hand. “Explain it to me. Who wrote it? Perhaps he has never seen battle. I have never been on the field myself, but I have imagined it. It seems intoxicating, but he does not feel the same about warfare.”

Running his hand over the cover of the book, Grantaire leaned gracefully against the bookshelf. “This is a collection of Sappho’s poems. A woman.”

“May I see the book?”

Grantaire pushed himself off the shelf and sauntered over, placing the book in Enjolras’ hands. The cloth was smooth, and the corners were well worn.

“A favorite of yours?” Enjolras asked.

“Jehan gave it to me as a gift three years ago. I’ve put it to good use.”

“Which poem is your favorite?”

“The one I just read to you. Number sixteen.”

Enjolras found it and ran it over with his eyes. “Any others?”

Grantaire raised an eyebrow. “Did you not appreciate it?”

“No, I did. I just want to know more. Tell me more.”

Grantaire leaned down, flipping through the pages backward. Towards the back of the book, the only words on the pages were fragments of greater poems lost to time.

“This one,” he said, pointing towards one lonely stanza. The number thirty-three was written above it.

It read:

 

> _When you lie dead, no one will remember you_
> 
> _For you have no share in the Muses’ roses._
> 
> _No, flitting aimlessly about,_
> 
> _You will wildly roam,_
> 
> _A shade amidst the shadowy dead._

Enjolras let out a small laugh, and when he looked back up at Grantaire, the man was looking at him intently.

“A bit dark, don’t you think?”

“Enjolras, this is good advice.”

“Advice for what? Reasons not to die? Death is something no one can prevent.”

“Outrunning Death is impossible, yes. But staying ahead of Death for the longest amount of time as possible is achievable. I pointed this one out to you for a reason. As I have said, you will surely martyr yourself. Please don’t.”

Grantaire, because he had flipped to the page the stanza was on, was still leaning down. Their faces were merely inches apart, and that same, incessant pressure in Enjolras’ chest rung like the Vaugirard steeple at noon. Enjolras held his breath without realizing he was doing so.

“If I can live to carry France to freedom, I will,” Enjolras answered. “I do not intend to die, but it is a sacrifice I am willing to make.”

“Sacrifice,” Grantaire repeated, as if the word left a bitter taste in his mouth. He sounded out the syllables one by one as if tasting the word. “It is a tragic thing, to sacrifice oneself for something greater. But,” he said, taking a deep breath, “I can’t say I wouldn’t do the same.”

Surprised by this declaration, Enjolras leaned forward slightly, Grantaire’s words drawing him in. Yes, as Enjolras had speculated before, there really were brown specks in Grantaire’s irises. Enjolras counted three in his left eye and two in his right. He had known Grantaire for nearly five years, yet he had never known such intricacies of him before. He wanted to find out more.

“And what would you sacrifice yourself for, exactly?” Enjolras asked, curiosity getting the better of him.

He dared not blink; he couldn’t miss a single moment of Grantaire’s reaction. Every movement of eye, of skin, of mouth, sent a message that Enjolras desired to unravel and pore over. Enjolras settled on a single emotion that practically flooded out of Grantaire: hesitation.

Only a moment later did Grantaire reply.

“You.”

Just like a cord being plucked by an angel in the heavens, Enjolras’ chest lept and filled his throat. He did not realize how close Grantaire had gotten. He did not know if it had been Grantaire or himself that had moved. Perhaps both. But Grantaire was not moving now. His lips posed an inch away from Enjolras’ lips, a question poised in the air.

Enjolras answered the question gladly.

Their lips met, the warmth of the other man’s mouth spreading through Enjolras’ senses. Grantaire tasted of watered-down wine, and Enjolras leaned in closer, wanting to press his lips like grapes. The feeling of Enjolras’ lips against someone else’s was both strange and electrifying, as if every one of his nerve endings was a piece of crystallized sugar. Grantaire opened his mouth in response and wrapped a strong arm around Enjolras’ torso, lifting him from the chair until their bodies were pressed together, inseparable. Enjolras bent his neck down to better reach Grantaire, letting his tongue slip into the other man’s mouth. It was only when Grantaire swept a stray curl behind Enjolras’ ear that Enjolras pulled away..

They pressed their foreheads together, their gasping breaths mixing. Enjolras peaked through his lashes to see Grantaire’s eyes half-lidded.

“Enjolras,” Grantaire breathed. Enjolras’ stomach fluttered at the sound of Grantaire saying his name, and he realized that it might have been the first time Grantaire had not called him _Apollo_. “How long have you felt this way?”

Enjolras took in a few more breathes before answering. “I think this feeling has been growing inside of me for quite some time, but it was only tonight that I was able to name it.”

Grantaire opened his eyes fully. They were even more brilliant up close, and Enjolras reached his hand out to lay it against Grantaire’s cheek. Grantaire leaned into the touch, and the skin of Enjolras’ palm prickled against Grantaire’s stubble.

“May I kiss you again?” Grantaire asked.

Enjolras hesitated for a moment. This seemed too good to be true. “Am I not just another one of your flings?”

Grantaire blinked in astonishment and reached up to cup Enjolras’ own cheek. He brought Enjolras closer to him, wrapping his other arm around Enjolras further. Enjolras could barely even remember the last time he had ever been so close to someone else. Imagined it, sure. But acted upon it? Never.

Enjolras let Grantaire nestle his head into his neck.

“Enjolras,” Grantaire whispered, “you mean more to me than anything. I value you more than my own life.”

Enjolras’ eyes widened, and he nearly pulled away.

“You and I both know it’s true,” Grantaire quickly cut in.

Enjolras was silent for a long while, not knowing how to reply. Cool Parisian air streamed in through the open windows, and Enjolras gripped Grantaire’s back, shielding both himself and the other man from the cold.

“Your presence is important,” Enjolras finally said. He gently brought a finger under Grantaire’s chin to raise it so that they were looking at each other. “I would hate for you to place my value above anything, especially yourself.”

“I think you and I also know that it’s too late for me to change my feelings.”

Enjolras considered this. Being so close to one another, he could hardly imagine being able to change his own feelings, either.

Grantaire brushed a stray curl away from Enjolras’ face and smiled. “Will you allow me to dote on you, then?”

“As if you don’t already do that.”

Grantaire let out a faint chuckle, and Enjolras did the same. Their chests bounced against each other.

“Yes,” Enjolras answered. “As long as you keep attending our meetings and try to help out.”

Grantaire rolled his eyes, but his cheeks were flushed with happiness. “Anything for you. And . . .” A cocky grin formed on his face. “Can that doting begin now? It _is_ getting awfully late. I would hate for you to be forced to walk home alone on such a dark night.”

“Grantaire,” Enjolras laughed, shaking his head in amusement. He looked out the window and could see a thin sliver of moon. It would be a long walk home and, indeed, quite dark. It certainly wouldn’t hurt to stay the night.

Enjolras turned back to Grantaire and took the opportunity to press their lips together once more. He would never get tired of this feeling—warmth and honey and lightning, all mixed together in an irresistible concoction.

“I would enjoy that greatly,” Enjolras murmured against Grantaire’s lips.

Grantaire smiled in return.

**Author's Note:**

> Check out my tumblr @hxasinthus (previously @enjolryas)
> 
> Kudos/comment if you enjoyed it!


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